Merle's Fourth Favorite Kind of Hole
The drive to Merle's cabin was longer than Beth had anticipated. She'd assumed the cabin would be on the outskirts of Senoia, probably out in the boonies or something. But Daryl drove them clear out to the deepest part of the holler, taking backroads and sketchy paths that she'd never even known existed despite the fact she'd lived here for her entire life.
She began to wonder if they were lost when a cabin came into view off in the distance. She didn't even notice it until they were about a half-mile away, thanks to all the trees and tall grass that surrounded it and practically concealed it from view.
As the bike slowed and pulled over to park on the side of the dirt road out front of the cabin, she took in their surroundings. This was the real holler—the parts of the Georgia countryside that she rarely ever visited because there was barely any cell service and it was way too easy to get lost. The parts her daddy had always warned her to stay away from because of the presence of dangerous wildlife and even more dangerous 'unsavory folk.' There were miles and miles of thick woods all around, and the rolling fields were overgrown with wild grass and flowers. Everything was beginning to turn from green to yellow, though it remained lush as ever.
She reckoned it only made sense that the cabin would be out here. It was practically off the grid, more than a dozen miles away from any sort of human life or civilization. She thought it might've been originally built as a hunting cabin or something like that, but of course Will Dixon had bought it and utilized the discreet location to his advantage; he'd operated a moonshine business—among other ventures—for nearly three decades without ever being detected by law enforcement or located by enemies. It was perfect for a guy who wanted to live off the land and not be bothered by pesky police or nosy neighbors. She could guess that Merle and Daryl had been the only two who'd known the exact location of this place.
It was eery to gaze at the front of the cabin from the edge of the road. Beth couldn't help but remember viewing it from Merle's eyes. Seeing it in a dozen crime scene photos had made it feel all that much more ominous. Forbidden, in a way. The knowledge of Morgan's visions only made that feeling heavier.
She knew they were supposed to be here, that they had to go inside and see… something. But not knowing what was lying in wait for her was unsettling. What could they possibly find in this old cabin that would make her stronger? What kind of answers were they supposed to find? It just looked like another old cabin to her.
There was no yellow caution tape to be found anywhere. And though the grass was overgrown, it did appear to have been cut within the last couple of months. There was a noticeable path of stomped-down grass that led straight to the steps of the front porch. Beth recalled seeing an old bench and a rocking chair sitting on the porch, but those were gone now. The curtains were all pulled shut and the place looked dark and empty under the early afternoon sun.
Daryl parked the motorcycle and kicked down the kickstand before silencing the engine. Beth pulled off her helmet and stepped off, stretching her legs as she stared at the cabin. She couldn't stop looking at it—studying it, recalling it from the vision and the photos. A chill ran down her spine as soon as she took a step into the grass.
She wondered why Merle hadn't appeared yet, though that question quickly fled as she decided to take advantage of the moments she'd been given that were blissfully free of his presence. Maybe he didn't find the location of his death to be a very savory travel destination, or maybe he'd taken a lesson from their visit to the Swamp Witch and wanted to avoid confronting the inevitable truth about his murder—whatever it was, she didn't care. Any time she didn't have to suffer through his wretched commentary was a blessing.
Beth tore her gaze away from the cabin and turned back to see Daryl rifling through the bag hanging off the side of his bike. "So now everybody thinks we're dating—except Maggie."
She couldn't resist bringing it up. The way he'd lied to Rick had been stuck in her mind since they drove away from the Sheriff's Department. And to think she'd denied the same claim so vehemently to her own family…
Daryl grunted without looking up, actively searching through the bag for something. "Rick ain't everybody."
She rolled her eyes and said, "No, but my dad an' brother already think we're dating. Even though I told 'em we're not. Rick's gonna end up tellin' 'em—"
"What?" He snapped impatiently as he began pulling out random objects and setting them atop the motorcycle seat in order to make his search easier. He didn't look up. "What's he gonna tell 'em? What they already assumed? BFD. Rather they think we was datin' than thinkin' I'm sellin' ya bad drugs or somethin'."
"BFD?" Beth asked cluelessly.
He sighed, wrist-deep in the darkness of the bag and still not finding what he was looking for. "It means big fuckin' deal. What—you afraid yer daddy's gonna disown ya fer goin' out with some no-good Dixon boy?"
She rolled her eyes again, huffing out a breath of frustration. "No, of course not. 'S just—"
"Calm down, Greene. It don't mean nothin'," he grumbled. "Just doin' what I gotta do ta keep us both from bein' admitted to a mental institution. Don't go gettin' some schoolgirl crush on me over a little white lie."
"Hah!" Beth barked out humorlessly, though her cheeks were turning red. She frowned and said, "Don't flatter yerself, Dixon."
He grumbled something under his breath that she couldn't decipher, but she chose to ignore it regardless.
Beth glanced at the front door of the cabin, then back to Daryl. He was still actively searching for whatever was hiding at the very bottom of his bag.
"Y'said you sold this place, right?" She asked, eager to change the subject.
"Uh-huh," he grunted. "Some city slicker gun nut with too much money, sold it to 'im over the phone 'cause he lives in Chicago. He wanted it fer huntin'. Said he ain't gonna be usin' it but a couple months outta the year."
"Oh," Beth said, watching as he finally found whatever he was looking for and triumphantly pulled it out of the bag. "I'm guessin' he's not comin' out this month."
Daryl chuckled, pleased to have finally succeeded, and shoved everything else back into the bag. "Nah. He was out here las' week ta hang up his guns an' put some IKEA shit inside. I'on't think he'll be back till Christmas."
"So—you got a spare key?" She asked, hoping they wouldn't be trespassing again—or breaking and entering.
He held up what he'd just procured from his bag: a silver house key. Then he smirked. "Yup. Dumbass didn't even ask fer both copies."
"That's lucky," she commented, silently thanking God that they wouldn't be breaking down any doors today.
"Nah," Daryl said, pinching the key tightly between his forefingers. "Jus' smart."
He approached her and then brushed past, gesturing for her to follow. And she did, through the grass and up to the porch.
"What?" Beth smirked, slowly climbing the squeaky wooden steps close behind him. "Like you knew you'd need ta keep the spare?"
Daryl shrugged and glanced back at her over his shoulder. "Didn't know. Jus' had a feeling."
Been having a lotta those lately, she wanted to say. But she bit her tongue instead.
Daryl was slipping the key inside the lock on the front door when Merle appeared.
"'Bout damn time we start gettin' down ta business," he remarked. "What'd y'all see in those files, anyhow? You even know what the hell yer lookin' for in here?"
Beth gave him a shrug and watched Daryl turn the knob and push the door open. He stepped inside and she paused in the doorway.
"He seems ta know," she whispered to Merle.
Merle groaned and reluctantly followed her.
The air inside the cabin was stale and musty and everything was covered in a thin layer of dust. The sunlight leaking in through the curtains illuminated clouds of microscopic debris as it was disturbed by Daryl and Beth's presence. The floors and walls were all made of thick dark wood. The furniture was sparse and looked brand new, and though the walls were bare save for a couple of newly-hung paintings that looked like they'd come straight off the shelves of the nearest Cabela's, there were still numerous yellowed silhouettes from where different photos had previously been mounted for years.
All-in-all, the house was small: a square living room with a fireplace, a narrow kitchen off to the right, a tiny bathroom to the left, and straight ahead was a closed door that led to the only bedroom. There was no backdoor nor any other porch; the three other outside walls of the cabin were surrounded by tall grass and lush, shady trees.
Daryl took a moment to flip on every switch and pull open every set of curtains, willing as much light as possible upon the dim interior of the small cabin. He had a look of determination set on his face from the moment he'd stepped up onto the porch. Beth opted to stand back and let him search for whatever he was looking for, lingering near the front door with Merle at her side as she took in every detail of the home he'd once occupied.
The dead Dixon didn't seem particularly ecstatic about being back inside the house where he'd been killed. Beth could feel his apprehension like a low frequency vibration within her bones.
The place where Merle's soul left his body, Morgan's voice echoed at the back of her mind.
Merle frowned and looked around with obvious displeasure, arms crossed over his chest as he grumbled incoherently under his breath. Beth could only guess that he was pissed with how the new owner had redecorated. She was resisting the urge to talk to him while Daryl was around, hoping to give the living Dixon some peace and quiet so he could focus on the task at hand.
Not to mention, she was wary of how Daryl viewed her when she was talking to someone he couldn't see. It had been a little different at Morgan's—under the circumstances and all—but now, it just made her feel weird. And a tad crazy. And she could only imagine that he felt a bit left out and confused whenever he witnessed her little one-sided conversations. That wasn't the precedent she wanted to set; Beth didn't want Daryl to think of her as the weird girl who was constantly talking to his dead brother in front of him. Things were weird enough already without throwing that aspect into the mix. So she resolved to be more apprehensive.
Even when they were lurking around Merle's final residence—especially when they were lurking around Merle's final residence. There were much more telling details to be observed than could ever be revealed by the sarcastic ghost of the eldest Dixon spawn.
It didn't take Beth long to spot nearly every bullet hole that Sheriff Grimes had pointed out in the crime scene photos. The living room walls were littered with them, as was the bathroom door and part of the kitchen. The front door appeared to have been recently replaced with a sturdier model, though she could imagine what the old one had probably looked like. The only door without any bullet holes was the one leading to the bedroom.
"This place looks like shit," Merle spat.
Beth shot him a glance with raised eyebrows and lightly shrugged. She wanted to quip, 'Probably looked even more like shit when you owned it.' But Daryl was nearby so she resisted.
Merle seemed to read the unspoken sentiment on her face and rolled his eyes in response.
Then she realized that Daryl had stopped moving around. He was standing in front of the bedroom door, his back to her. She waited for him to open it but he remained motionless in place, as though he were contemplating his decision.
She watched him for a long moment, until Merle began scoffing impatiently.
"You okay?" She asked quietly.
Her voice echoed around the silent room with a weight that Merle's no longer seemed to possess. Daryl's back stiffened and he raised his head without glancing back at her.
"Yeah," he growled. He cleared his throat and reached out to grasp the doorknob.
Then he was pushing the door open and stepping inside, his footsteps light and tentative. He flipped on the lightswitch and a single dim bulb came to life above. Beth waited until he'd taken three full steps into the bedroom before she followed.
Merle's old bedroom—the place where his soul left his body once and for all—held a foreboding sensation within its walls. As soon as her foot crossed the threshold, Beth could feel a heavy weight invading her chest and settling in to occupy the space between her heart and lungs. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and a trail of goosebumps formed along her arms. She tried to ignore it, but it was impossible; a chill ran up her spine and wracked her body with a shiver. She forced the sensations away, shoving them back as she entered the bedroom and willfully ignored the wrenching of her gut.
It's just because I know what happened in here, she told herself.
But in all honesty, she knew that wasn't it. She could feel Death itself. She could sense its presence, she could detect the residue of its brief stay within this bedroom. It was something so palpable that she was certain any person who ever entered this room would sense it. How could they not? Death left a trail—like the scent of noxious perfume—in its wake. And it was so very obvious.
Or maybe it was only truly obvious to the Gifted.
Beth wasn't sure if Daryl could feel it, but judging from the way all of his muscles tensed up and his hands clenched into fists, he probably could. Then again, this was the place where he'd found his only brother hanging from a noose. Stepping foot back in here was probably like reliving that day over and over, she reckoned. Her chest grew heavier with guilt and empathy.
Without hesitation, she stepped up to his side and reached out for one of his clenched fists. She grasped it in her hand and willed it to relax, and when he turned his head and stared down at her with watery blue eyes, she offered a sad but hopeful smile. Then his hand was clasped in hers, clammy and stiff yet willing all the same.
"I know you didn't wanna come back here," she whispered, watching as he quickly glanced away and began gazing at the upper walls, towards the ceiling.
He grunted. "Gotta do what I gotta do."
"What're we lookin' for exactly?" Merle loudly pondered as he wandered over to the corner and inspected the new bed that was pushed against the wall. "I know he done found all the drugs I had in here. What else is there?"
Beth pursed her lips and shot him a glare that said, Just shut up and be patient.
He sneered and turned away to begin investigating the knick knacks sitting atop the dresser.
She knew his sudden willingness to be quiet and cooperative was only because of current circumstances—the fact that they were back at the crime scene, actively looking for any sort of direct evidence pertaining to his life and his murder. Which meant it would be short-lived. Once they so much as thought about veering off course for a moment, or looking into something that didn't put Merle Dixon in the spotlight, he'd start complaining again. So she had to take advantage while it lasted.
She understood that Daryl was having a hard time, but she needed him to have a clear head and an open mind. It wasn't like the murderer was just going to pop up at them out of nowhere and reveal himself.
"D'you see that bullet hole you were talkin' about?" She asked, her eyes darting around the ceiling and upper walls in search of clues. She spotted multiple holes, just like in the photos. But none of them meant anything to her. They all looked the same.
"Bullet hole? I wasn't shot," Merle commented without turning around.
Daryl grunted, though she couldn't tell whether it was affirmation or not. He let go of her hand and stepped away but she remained where she stood, watching as he pulled open the curtains on all three of the windows. Bright afternoon sunlight poured in and illuminated all the dust. The bedroom became more visible, the holes in the walls and the scuffs on the floor more prominent. The new furniture stuck out like a sore thumb against the age-worn interior.
Daryl was meandering around near the far wall, looking up and down as he inspected the old wood's wounds, when something caught Beth's eye from through the window. She tore her gaze away from the ceiling and stared out the window, through water-stained glass and the thick greenery outside. A flash of movement made her heart skip and her eyes widen.
She silently stepped forward until she was directly in front of the window and peering through the glass. From here, she could see the field behind the cabin. It was overgrown with tall grass, but she could clearly make out a small structure nestled within the trees in the distance. It was mostly concealed by the woods, but it looked like a shed of some kind. She narrowed her eyes and stared harder, searching for what had caught her attention in the first place.
Then there was another flash of movement. She blinked and two big black dogs appeared, standing together beside the shed. They were staring back at her from amongst the shadowy trees, their eyes glowing bright red. They were completely still.
Her breath hitched in her throat and her blood went cold in her veins. They bore a striking resemblance to Papa Legba's Hellhounds.
"Daryl," she squeaked, unable to tear her gaze away and turn to him.
She heard him shifting his weight before he responded, "Yeah?"
"Look. Hurry," she hissed, bringing up a shaky hand to point out the window while her eyes remained locked on the black hounds.
He shuffled over to her and gazed out the window, following her finger to see what she was pointing out. The dogs didn't move. Their red eyes didn't blink. Daryl grunted indifferently.
"Wild dogs—so what?" He said.
Beth finally peeled her gaze away from the window and turned her head to look up at Daryl, incredulous. "Wild—no! They're the Hellhounds. They have red eyes, Daryl!"
Daryl shrugged. "Prob'ly jus' dogs."
Merle popped over to see what they were looking at. He cackled.
"Ain't nothin' there, blondie," he remarked before stepping away, very disinterested. Not that he would've admitted to seeing Legba's signature hounds anyway.
Beth turned and looked out the window to find that the dogs had indeed disappeared. She furrowed her brow and frowned.
"Gone now," Daryl said, as though that solved it. Then he stepped away and resumed his quiet investigation.
But Beth's stomach was suddenly twisting and churning painfully. Her heart wouldn't stop hammering inside her chest. She looked out the window again in search of the black dogs, but there was no trace of them. She knew she'd seen them. It wasn't her imagination—it couldn't be.
But what did the appearance of the Hellhounds mean? Surely nothing good. Right…?
She didn't get more than a moment to contemplate it before Daryl was making a sound of surprise and gesturing for her to come look. She did, approaching tentatively to stand at his side and stare up at the small hole in the wall that he was pointing at.
Merle joined them, standing just behind Beth and watching curiously. He was tenser now than before she'd mentioned the Hellhounds. She could feel it.
"Here," Daryl explained, indicating the bullet hole. Though to Beth, it looked no different than every other hole in the bedroom's walls. "This wasn't here before. It's newer—don't look like one'a Merle's shots neither. He didn't own no gun that coulda made a hole like this."
Beth squinted and leaned a bit closer, examining the hole. "You… sure?"
"Positive," Daryl insisted. He traced the outer edges with his fingertip. "Shit looks like a Colt .45 or somethin'. Couldn't tell in the pictures, but I can see it now. I knew it looked wrong."
This particular bullet hole was in the wall directly beside the far window, less than six inches away from the curtain. It was about a foot over Beth's head, which she guessed must mean that it had been made either by someone tall or by an upwards aim of the weapon.
Or maybe she was just overthinking it, making ignorant assumptions based on way too many episodes of CSI and Law & Order and Dexter.
But now that she was thinking about it… really thinking about it… She glanced back around the room, at all the other holes in the walls: they were all at about Merle's height. Some of them were obviously shot from odd angles, a couple of them may have even been made from a sitting position. But this one was different.
"So yer brother never owned a Colt .45?" She asked, peering up at the hole curiously.
She figured if anyone knew weapons and the marks they left behind, it was probably Daryl. She had no reason to doubt his inference.
"Nah," Daryl replied. "Never liked 'em. Always loved 'is Desert Eagles."
"Damn straight," Merle remarked, laughing proudly. "Colt .45's fer pussies. An' wannabe cowboy vigilantes like yer boy, Officer Friendly." He scoffed.
Well, that was a more definitive answer.
Beth reached up and stretched her arm out to lightly graze her fingertips across the hole in the wall. She wasn't sure why—it just seemed right. Like a reflex, or like maybe she'd be able to feel the telltale difference that Daryl felt.
Instead, she felt a shock of electricity, as though she'd just stuck a fork into an outlet. At the same time, there was a deafening bang in her ears and a steel grip tightening around her throat. She tried to flinch back but her entire body was suddenly frozen. All her muscles went stiff. Every bit of energy she possessed seemed to leak out of her all at once.
The only sound she could make was a small gasp. Then the air was sucked out of her lungs. She couldn't breathe through the unseen death-grip around her throat. She turned her head to look at Daryl for rescue only to find him gazing down at her with a quizzical expression. She tried to say his name, but she couldn't find her voice.
She felt herself falling. She couldn't reach out to him for help. Then she blinked and he disappeared.
Everything else disappeared, too. A deep blackness swallowed her up.
The last thing she heard before she succumbed and went under was Daryl's frantic voice echoing in her ears, "Beth—Beth?!"
And Merle's breathless cry behind him, "Blondie! What the f—"
Then everything went silent.
to be continued...
